


when the clock strikes midnight

by SydneyHorses



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Ghosts, Hauntings, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29982708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyHorses/pseuds/SydneyHorses
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle at Gronder Field, Dimitri finds himself in a limbo with a red-haired stranger, who says he is here to monitor his ‘progress’ and help the gods of the world determine his fate. Together they fight off other wandering ghosts, regain Dimitri’s important memories one by one, and bond, not necessarily in that order.In truth, this stranger is Sylvain, who has been here since he died at his brother’s hand at Conand Tower. A mission gone wrong. A lingering regret. Hidden affections, never voiced and never acted upon. A chance at redemption, but only if Dimitri finally, finally remembers him before the last bell tolls…
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	when the clock strikes midnight

**Author's Note:**

> this was my work for Dimivain BB! It was a pinch hit and was a huge change in pace from the kind of things I normally write. I had a ton of fun doing something different, and was so lucky to work with the amazing @ArtsyPoseyy and @Catatune
> 
> It was an amazing experience - make sure to follow Artsy and Cat!

First Bell

???, 1185

Sylvain knows better than this. He shouldn’t be doing this, cradling a dead King’s head in his lap. This isn’t anything sacred about this. He won’t get to stay like this for more than a few fleeing moments. Still, back when he was alive he was plenty greedy, and in death the same remains true. He strokes a hand through Dimitri’s hair. It’s softer than he would have thought, but perhaps death will do that to a person. After all, he doubts Dimitri is using high quality shampoo on the battlefield.

He sighs.

As if in answer, Dimitri stirs. His eye opens slowly, as though waking for the first time. 

Sylvain smiles down at the man in his lap. “Hey, Dima.”

There’s no spark of recognition in Dimitri’s eye. His gaze is cloudy and unfocused, and there’s nothing in his eye to indicate that he has any idea about anything going on at all. “Hello. Who are you?”

When Sylvain swallows, it tastes bitter. It tastes like regret. “Right. Sorry, Dimitri. I should have known.”

Dimitri sits up. “I’m sorry. I - who are you? How do you know my name?”

Sylvain stands and dusts himself off. He’s wearing his academy uniform still - a tragedy, really, considering how uncomfortable and unflattering the damn thing is. No changing clothes in purgatory though.

“Ah,” he says. “I’m Sylvain.”

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s mouth makes a stranger out of his name. “Where are we?”

Sylvain knows he shouldn’t tell him. He’s never seen anyone else here, but as soon as Dimitri appeared he knew what he had to do. “Consider it an in-between place. All you really need to know is that I’m here to monitor your progress and help some… interested parties come to a decision.”

Dimitri rises. “What sort of decision?”

Sylvain’s answering smile feels like a lie. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself, your Majesty.”

“There is no need for such formalities,” Dimitri says. “I am no king. I do not know who I am at all.”

Sylvain sighs. “Surely that’s not true. Tell me what you know.”

“I am Dimitri,” he says. “And I… I need to return to where I came from. They need me there, I am sure of it. But I do not know where that place is.”

Sylvain does. He’s not sure what’s happened since he’s died, but he knows that the others must need Dimitri, for him to look this rough. Goddess. His eye, his face - is he taller? Sylvain can’t tell. All he knows is that he wants nothing more than to know what’s happened in the five years since he’s died, and that there’s no way Dimitri will be able to tell him.

“Let’s walk,” he suggests. “Maybe we’ll find a clue to your origins as we travel.”

Dimitri nods, slow and unsuspecting. Here, in whatever state he’s in, he’s the Dimitri he was a long time ago. Trusting, kind. Everything a person should be.

Sylvain brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Come on,” he says. 

He takes Dimitri’s hand. It’s cold to the touch, and he drops it as soon as he’d held it. Dimitri doesn’t say a word, just watches with an impassive expression.

Sylvain swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. It’s been a long time since he’s held anyone’s hand. Once, he occupied all his time with such things. 

“Where are you leading me?” Dimitri’s voice is softer, now. More intimate.

Sylvain doesn’t touch him again.

“Away,” he says. “Deeper into this place.” He smiles at Dimitri over his shoulder. “Make sure to keep up. It’s not safe for a defenseless young lord.”

Dimitri laughs, and Sylvain’s heart shatters. His step falters, and he misses whatever it is Dimitri says to him next. “Sorry,” Sylvain says. “What was that?”

There’s still a ghost of a smile on Dimitri’s face. “I said that I am far from defenseless.” He raises an arm, and like magic, Areadbhar appears in his hand. For a moment, Dimitri is just as he was - a king, one that Sylvain would gladly kneel before.

The moment passes. Dimitri looks down at the weapon in his hand with no recognition, and Sylvain’s smile is so brittle it may as well already be broken.

“That’s a nice trick,” Sylvain says. “You should be careful, though. You wouldn’t want something dangerous to think you’re a threat.”

“Something dangerous? Like you?”

Sylvain lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “I’m dangerous, sure, but I’m no threat to you.”

“Hm.” Dimitri adjusts his grip on Areadbhar. “Then what is?”

Sylvain swallows. He shouldn’t. He knows the rules of this place. He is to be no one, he is to watch those in the realm of the living and be the silent specter until he’s served his time. Anyone he meets he should treat as a stranger, and guide them through this realm until they come to their own conclusion about what their time here means.

He’s breaking all the rules for Dimitri.

“Ghosts,” he whispers.

Dimitri’s eye widens. “Ghosts?” He looks around, as though expecting to see someone. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Dimitri!” Sylvain hisses. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re dangerous. The dead should be left well enough alone.”

“They have never left me alone,” Dimitri replies. “Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

Sylvain has no answer. He sighs and summons the Lance of Ruin to his hand, his heart heavy.

The Lance of Ruin has always been made of bone. Here, though, it’s as if it’s died along with Sylvain. It’s what killed him, but he tries not to dwell on it. The crest stone in the Lance is dull and muted, and the bones that make it up are now thin and brittle.

The ghosts in front of them appear silently, with empty eyes and gaping mouths. Sylvain used to see the ghosts often, but it’s been years since he last saw one. They’re scarier than he remembers. Hungrier.

Does he look like one of them?

Dimitri doesn’t seem to share Sylvain’s fears. He fixes his gaze on the transparent, faceless creatures approaching them and charges forward, Areadbhar at the ready. Sylvain gathers his courage and does the only thing he can: he follows.

Second Bell

Fhirdiad, 1175

Dedue is the only person in the world that Dimitri would like to speak to, maybe for forever. Right now, they’re in Dimitri’s room alone together. It’s been nine days and four hours since Duscur, and Dimitri thinks something broke within him that night.

“Your Highness?” Dedue’s voice trembles. It has only been nine days and four hours for him too.

They’re on Dimitri’s bed, in his room. Someone told him he could move to the king’s quarters if he wanted, but Dimitri doesn’t. He wants everything to be the same as it was ten days ago. “I’m fine,” Dimitri says. His voice isn’t steady, but it will be. He’ll learn.

“I do not believe you,” Dedue says.

Dimitri knows that Dedue is not fine either. He swallows. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Outside, a bell sounds. Dimitri jumps to his feet, staring out the window. He’s lived in this room for fifteen years, and he’s never heard a bell like that before. 

“Your Highness?”

Dedue sounds as though he’s speaking through water, and Dimitri has drifted out to sea. 

“Father?” Dimitri’s voice cracks.

For just a moment, all is as it should be. Dimitri turns to see his father, King Lambert standing on the far side of his room. His breath catches in his throat, and he extends a hand towards him. “Father!”

“Dimitri!” Dedue jumps to his feet.

The ringing of the bell stops. Dimitri stares at Dedue, taking in the wide-eyed expression his face. “You didn’t see him?” he asks.

“See who?”

Dimitri turns to where his father had been, but instead sees nothing but empty space. He swallows, his heart sinking. “Nevermind,” he whispers. “I must have been mistaken.”

Dedue’s concerned gaze doesn’t leave him, even when Dimitri sits down and folds his hands neatly in his lap.

Third Bell

???, 1185

“You’re an excellent fighter,” Dimitri remarks, once the fighting is done and the ghosts are temporarily silenced. “Where were you trained?”

Sylvain’s step falters. His hand twitches. “My country trained me.”

Dimitri smiles. “As did mine.” He pauses, his lips pursed. “I’m surprised I remember that. Perhaps my memory is returning, after all.” His smile fades. “Do you know where Dedue is?”

Dimitri stops walking. Sylvain swallows. This is proving more difficult than he thought it would be.

“Sylvain?” Dimitri says. “Where’s Dedue?”

Sylvain’s hand curls into a fist, his fingernails digging sharply into his palm. When he was alive, pain like this helped ground him. Now, in death, in this horrible shadow realm, he feels nothing at all. “I don’t know. That isn’t important in evaluating your progress. Come on, we should keep moving.”

Dimitri frowns. “No. What exactly are we evaluating? Why do the few things - the few _people_ \- I recall from my life not important?”

“Nothing matters here.” Sylvain’s voice is hollow and empty. He’s been here a long time, and he’s learned firsthand that death brings nothing but the cold, dark underworld. All he can do, all anyone can do, is try to cling to their lives, and their memories of it.

“Sylvain.” Dimitri sounds familiar, is the problem. They would have had better luck sending someone else to talk to him. Someone who didn’t know him, who wouldn’t fall prey to the first plea from Dimitri’s lips.

Sylvain’s resolve weakens with every passing moment that Dimitri watches him with his clear blue gaze. He tugs at the jacket of his uniform, opens and closes his palm into a fist. “You’re dying,” Sylvain says. “You could still make it. While your body fights for life, your mind struggles on in here. The gods are figuring it out. Hence the lack of memories. You’ll get them all back right before you wake up.” Or he’ll stay dead forever, Sylvain doesn’t add.

That’s what happened to him, after all. He didn’t have a guide like Dimitri does, but he wandered around for days, unsure of who or where he was. Eventually, his memories returned, right down to the bitter end. He died at Miklan’s hand, at Conand Tower. The Lance of Ruin plunged into his chest, and all of Mercedes’ healing and Ingrid’s tears could do nothing to save him.

It had taken him a long time to accept his death.

Dimitri’s is far more peaceful. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t cry, or rage, or express anything at all. Instead, there’s a grim resignation on his face. “Is that so.”

Any doubt Sylvain may have had about this being a hallucination or a cruel trick by the gods themselves vanishes. Only the real Dimitri would react like this.

“If I’m here because I’m dying,” Dimitri says. “Then what are you? Why are you here?”

“Oh, me?” Sylvain laughs. “I’m not important.”

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” Dimitri steps closer, extends a hand towards Sylvain. He lowers his hand before he touches him, and Sylvain feels the bitter sting of regret. It’s a familiar emotion when he’s around Dimitri.

“Are you dead?”

Sylvain doesn’t know what he is, these days. He is a man. He is not a man. He is dead. He has always been dead. He was never alive. “Close enough.”

Dimitri takes another step closer. If they were friends, if they were still as they were to each other when they were alive, Sylvain could hug him. Instead, Dimitri sees him as a stranger. A handsome stranger, sure, but a stranger nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” Dimitri says. “Have you been alone all this time?”

Sylvain has been alone since he was a little boy with a brother who hated him. He hates this weakness inside of him and the way in which he softens immeasurably at Dimitri’s words. “This isn’t about me,” he whispers.

Dimitri touches Sylvain’s shoulder. Even through Dimitri’s glove and Sylvain’s uniform, it burns. His hand is a leaden weight, anchoring Sylvain to the earth for the first time in five years. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” Dimitri repeats.

Sylvain swallows. “Thank you.” He stands a little straighter, shakes off Dimitri’s hand. “We need to keep travelling and regaining your memories.”

Dimitri steps back, the same careful distance between them as Sylvain’s been trying to maintain this whole time. “How do we do that?”

Sylvain smirks, pulls out the Lance of Ruin once more. “We’re gonna have to kill some ghosts.”

This time, when the ghosts appear, their faces are sickeningly familiar, down to the slant of their noses and the curve of their smiles. Dimitri doesn’t react, but Sylvain thinks for a moment he may throw up. It’s a horrifying sight, and Sylvain’s stomach turns.

Standing in front of them are rows and rows of ghosts, each wearing Glenn Fraldarius’ face.

Sylvain used to think about Glenn often. Not as often as Dimitri or Felix or Ingrid, surely, but often. Even more often once he died and got here, to this place. As a young boy, Sylvain liked to pretend that Glenn was his brother, and that Miklan was nothing more than a bad dream. Glenn’s death proved otherwise, of course, and then Miklan plunged the Lance of Ruin into Sylvain’s chest five years later.

Now, Sylvain tries to avoid the thought of brothers altogether if he can help it.

He stabs the first one with the lance, ignoring the too-familiar cry that fills his ears. This isn’t Glenn. Glenn isn’t here in this place with him, or else he would have seen him earlier. Glenn has passed on, and knows peace, and isn’t dying over and over again at Sylvain’s hands.

Dimitri is the one that stabs the last remaining ghost, the figure falling to the ground with Areadbhar still stuck in his chest. It’s not Glenn. Sylvain knows this, and yet it goes against everything he knows to see Areadbhar be the weapon that slays him. The ghost glows white, and disappears when Dimitri yanks his lance out.

Sylvain turns away.

Fourth Bell

Garreg Mach Monastery, 1180

“It’s her,” Dimitri says. His voice is hollow and cold, and he can feel a darkness settling in. It surrounds him, threatens to choke him completely. He is never going to break out of it.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says.

“It’s her,” Dimitri repeats.

She did this. Edelgard did it all. She’s engineered every bit of his misery. He can see it all, laid out perfectly in front of him. Duscur. His parents. Dedue’s parents. Everything awful that has happened to him, has been by her design.

The absurdity of the situation chokes him. Edelgard and Hubert are long gone, and Dimitri is left to pick up the pieces. It’s Duscur all over again, except this time there’s no one to save or look after. He’s alone with this betrayal. He’s alone.

Laughter bubbles up out of Dimitri like magma, scraping his throat raw as he bends over and laughs until he can’t breathe anymore, until he thinks that he perhaps never knew how to breathe at all.

Dedue touches his arm, and Dimitri flinches away. He can’t breathe. There’s only laughter left inside of him, and something darker, something he hasn’t felt in a long while.

He meets Felix’s eyes. His face is twisted in disgust, a wrinkle between his brows and a sharp scowl on his face. At his side, Byleth looks impassive. She doesn’t seem surprised by Edelgard’s betrayal, or by this beast threatening to tear free from Dimitri’s chest.

Dimitri twists his fingers into his hair and stands, breathing heavily. He swallows, his chest heaving. Byleth’s eyes don’t leave him, the eerie, unblinking green of them unrelenting.

“Dimitri,” Ingrid says.

He bares his teeth at her. There’s blood on his face. Whether it’s his or Edelgard’s, he does not know.

It’s all her fault.

If she could betray him like this, then who’s next?

Fifth Bell

???, 1180

Sylvain watches as Dimitri sinks to his knees, holding his head in his hands. When he stands, his eye is bloodshot and there’s a grimace firmly affixed to his face.

It hurts, to see him like this. Sylvain didn’t think it would hurt when he saw Dimitri again. He’d hoped it would be peaceful, that if Dimitri ever came to this cursed and shadowy land that Sylvain was in, he’d be old. Sylvain would welcome him to the realm of the dead with open arms, and Dimitri would be sad to see him so young, but relieved anyways. Dimitri would cry, but Sylvain would crack a joke, and then maybe he’d finally get to move on from whatever this hellish place was.

Instead, Dimitri’s cloak looks more like a death shroud, and his grip on his lance is iron-tight. 

“Who were those people?” Dimitri asks. “Why were they so upset? Why was - why was _I_ so upset?”

“I can’t answer that,” Sylvain says. His tongue sits heavy and wooden in his mouth, almost as dead as he is. 

“You can’t answer anything, can you?” Dimitri sighs. There’s recognition dawning on his face, but not the kind that Sylvain wants. “You’re wearing an academy uniform. You attended Garreg Mach?”

The pang of regret that shoots through Sylvain is overpowering. The mists around his ankles swirl a little tighter, and Sylvain’s heart drops. “Yes,” he says. He’s unsure of the expression his face is making, but he can’t imagine it’s a pretty one. “A long time ago.”

Dimitri’s frowns, his eye narrowed. There’s a pronounced line between his brows, and Sylvain wants nothing more than to reach out and press his thumb to it, smoothing the tension out.

If only he were still that person to Dimitri. If only he’d ever been that person.

“How old were you?” Dimitri asks. “When you died?”

Sylvain pauses. He’s not holding the Lance of Ruin anymore, but he can still feel the phantom weight of it in his hand. “Twenty,” he says. “I was twenty.”

“Ah.” Dimitri’s voice is heavy. “Younger than me, then. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sylvain nods. 

“How did you die?” Dimitri asks. 

Sylvain’s mouth quirks. “It was a family matter.”

Sixth Bell

Fhirdiad, 1167

Felix’s sword is new. It’s wooden and blunt still, but it’s new, a gift from Glenn. Well, a consolation prize, really. Glenn has just received his first real sword, a gift from the King himself. Felix has been sulking ever since, but the wooden sword does a fine job fixing his sour mood.

“Come on!” Ingrid says.

She’s smaller than all of them, but she’s meaner when they play fight, and plucks Felix’s sword from his hand before he can protest. “Let me have a turn with it. None of my swords are as nice.”

Dimitri has a real sword, but he’s not allowed to touch it except for when his father permits. He doesn’t mention it though - no need to upset Felix, after all. Felix pouts, but Ingrid ignores him, brandishing the sword at him and grinning wildly. Her hair is falling out of its braid, and there’s a scratch on her cheek. She’s seven years old, and the fiercest warrior Dimitri knows.

“Face me, Empire scum!” she cries.

Dimitri frowns. “Well, we’re not at war with the Empire. We have very good relations, actually.”

She pouts. “We’re playing! Be an Empire soldier!”

Dimitri _knows_ she’s wrong, historically speaking, but he nods, ready to accept the grim burden of historically inaccurate games. Ingrid points the sword at him, and Dimitri grabs a smaller, much more worn wooden sword from the corner of Felix’s bedroom. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll cut through!”

Ingrid giggles, then lunges forward. Dimitri parries, then dodges directly into her next attack. She laughs again, and Dimitri crumples dramatically to the ground. He barely felt the point of the wooden sword, but it’s worth it for the delighted noise Ingrid lets out.

“Oh no!” he cries. “You’ve killed me… I’m dead.”

Ingrid giggles, high and overjoyed. Dimitri closes his eyes and clutches his heart, a smile still on his face. Sylvain laughs too, and the moment would have been perfect if not for the gut-wrenching sound of Felix’s sobs.

Dimitri sits bolt upright just as Felix bursts into tears. Sylvain’s smile falls off his face, and he rushes over to pull Felix into his arms. “Felix,” Dimitri says.

Sylvain glares at him, Felix still sobbing hysterically in his arms. “It’s okay,” Sylvain says. “Dimitri’s fine. We’re all here.”

Felix sniffs and scrubs at his eyes, his face puffy. Shame burns within Dimitri, and he looks away from the judgement in Sylvain’s eyes.

-

When Sylvain’s body hits the ground, it doesn’t make a sound. Ingrid screams, a cry torn from her lungs as if it were her heart the the Lance of Ruin had pierced. Dimitri tightens his grip on his sword and stabs into Miklan’s chest.

It was futile. He’s already dead. The black beast is gone, and Miklan remains. His final act had been to plunge the lance into Sylvain.

Mercedes’ palms glow a faint gold, hovering over Sylvain’s lifeless body. It’s no use. Dimitri has seen plenty of dead things in his time, and now Sylvain is one of them.

They make the trek out of the tower with only Ingrid’s sobs for company. Dedue carries Sylvain. Dimitri carries the Lance of Ruin.

They leave Miklan’s body for the elements.

Byleth walks with Ingrid, a gentle hand on her elbow. Felix is alone, in the front of their group. Dimitri’s chest is hollow, whatever remnants of a heart that used to lay in there gone forever.

None of the Blue Lions speak on the way back to the monastery. When they’re home, Felix vanishes. Dedue brings Sylvain’s body to the infirmary. Ingrid retreats to her room.

Dimitri does nothing. He is nothing. There is nothing left for him here. 

It’s eerily similar to Glenn’s death. The silence, the shock, the fear. The knowledge that he’s gone, and is never going to come back.

Everything is going to be different now. Dimitri does not know how they’re supposed to weather this. 

Midnight

Gronder Field, 1185

“Sylvain?” Dimitri’s voice breaks, and so does Sylvain’s heart.

He smiles, wobbly and barely there. “Hey Dima.”

Dimitri springs forward and throws his arms around Sylvain, pulling him into a crushing hug. Sylvain freezes, going rigid in Dimitri’s arms. They’re a vice around him, and for a moment he forgets everything but Dimitri. 

“I remember,” Dimitri whispers. “I remember it all. Ingrid’s tears after your death, Felix’s silence. The monastery was never the same. Nothing was.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry.” 

Sylvain’s laugh sticks in his throat. “It wasn’t your fault I died.”

“It is my fault you were alone,” Dimitri says, grave.

Sylvain crumbles. When he collapses into Dimitri, his king is there to catch him, arms sturdy and firm around him. Sylvain buries his face in Dimitri’s neck, trembling as Dimitri holds him close, stroking his hair and whispering sweet nothings that Sylvain hasn’t heard for more than five years.

When Sylvain finally pulls away, he feels lighter. His face is tacky with tears, and Dimitri wipes the wetness of his face with a soft smile. 

Maybe there is something to be said for unfinished business, Sylvain muses. He’s always thought he would be here forever but maybe he really can move on. Maybe he’s not stuck here forever, like Faerghus myth dictates. Maybe if he can let go of this regret and anger and bitterness, he’ll find some semblance of peace.

“You’re still so young,” Dimitri whispers. “You look just like I remember.”

Sylvain shrugs. “I’ve been dead for five years. You’re older than I’ll ever be.”

“You haunted me when I was alive,” Dimitri says. “Is this yet another haunting? Am I to never know peace?”

“No!” Sylvain’s hand hovers over Dimitri’s shoulder. He fears what it would mean if he touched him. “This is really happening. I’m real. I’m here.”

Dimitri scrubs a hand over his face and sits down. The smoke on the ground clears when he sits, and after a moment Sylvain joins him.

This place never changes, but for the first time in five years, there’s grass. Slowly, a scene emerges around them. A cliff, looking out over a vast ocean. The sun, setting and reflecting bright orange onto the water. Sylvain can almost hear it, if he imagines hard enough.

“Is there anything you want?” Dimitri asks.

Sylvain swallows and curls his fingers into the grass. He knows it’s not real, that it’s just a side effect of this purgatory letting Dimitri go, but it’s grass. It’s warm and vibrant here, and Sylvain knows it won’t last, but he still wishes it would.

He uncurls his fingers, looking up at Dimitri. The sun is rising, staining the water purple and orange. It is so beautiful here. Sylvain smiles, and Dimitri smiles back. “Just this,” Sylvain says. He takes Dimitri’s hand. It’s been a long while since he held anyone’s hand, and even longer since he held Dimitri’s. There’s new scars he doesn’t recognize, and callouses from years of holding Areadbhar.

“That’s all?” Dimitri’s voice is soft. Sometime in the last five years, his voice got rougher. 

Sylvain squeezes Dimitri’s hand. “No,” he whispers. “That’s not all.” He leans forward and kisses Dimitri on the cheek, his lips brushing gently over the spot just below his eyepatch.

Dimitri is very still next to him. Sylvain pulls back slowly, his non-existent heartbeat thumping in his ears. Dimitri curls his fingers into Sylvain’s collar. “I have a gift for you,” he says. “If you’ll accept it.”

Sylvain swallows. He’s more terrified of this than he was of dying. “Of course.”

Dimitri smiles, slower than the sunrise, and kisses Sylvain. It’s gentle and soft, more of a suggestion of a kiss than the real thing. Sylvain fists his hand in Dimitri’s cloak and hauls him closer, desperately clinging to this last peace of reality.

-

When Dimitri opens his eyes, he’s staring up at a clear sky. The ground is hard and damp beneath him, and every bone in his body aches. “Sylvain?” he whispers.

Instead, three familiar faces look back at him. Dedue, Felix, and Rodrigue are crowded around him, relief etched onto their faces.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says.

There’s no Sylvain to be seen. There’s just the living, and everything that Dimitri has been left with. He swallows, sits up, and smiles at his friends. “I’m here,” he answers, smooth as can be.

He’s alone, but there is peace inside of him. He can move forward, live for Sylvain and everything that he hopes will come. He has to.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @edelgardlesbian


End file.
